


club 27

by miserablehoney



Category: Fall Out Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:07:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20932985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserablehoney/pseuds/miserablehoney
Summary: tw for suicidewritten: september 4th, 2018This is where he loses it, his self-possession drips from his fingertips and spills across the ceramic floor. Who is he? Pills to sleep, pills to focus, pills to breathe, pills to live. And when he thinks he has himself figured out, the dose changes.





	club 27

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on the first day of school last year. it’s quite old and my writing has improved a lot since then, but it means a lot to me and i cannot bear the thought of losing it, so i will post it here.

He reeks confidence, the smell of arrogance and beauty masked by his ‘Bone Daddy’ cologne as he runs his fingers through his black, greasy hair. He flashes a toothy grin to no one in particular as he stands up on his skeletal legs, abandoning the comfort of his bed. Throwing aside his blanket, the young man struts to his bathroom to take his medication.

_ This is where he loses it, his self-possession drips from his fingertips and spills across the ceramic floor. Who is he? Pills to sleep, pills to focus, pills to breathe, pills to live. And when he thinks he has himself figured out, the dose changes.  _

He shakes away the thoughts clouding his mind and allows the ativan to pass through his chapped lips, ignoring the fact that this was double his normal dose.

Nothing passes through his lips these days except for his pills and small little bites of plain toast that he washes down with a sip of water. Everyone notices the difference, how his skinny jeans fall off his sharp hip-bones, and how his eyes look lamented. He’s basically a Tim Burton character at this point. He has no life outside of those dreaded pills. 

Of course he ignores the now constant spinning in his head, the drowsiness compelling him and the pain in his stomach. All that matters now are the pills. Ativan is all that matters, everything that has ever mattered, and now he craves the rest of the bottle. 

One by one, ten at a time, they slip down his throat dry, like they’re the only thing he’s had to eat in days. 

Which, technically, they are. 

Suddenly, he’s coughing up blood. Vermillion paint trickled down his chin, splattering his vintage ‘blink-182’ shirt, and the spinning in his head becomes a transfixing pain, like someone brought a dagger up to his temple. He collapses onto the floor like a rag doll, sputtering what he assumes will be his last words before the ativan has fully possessed him. 

Instead, the words come out too slurred and quiet to understand, and Pete Wentz, at the young age of twenty-seven, is found dead in his home the next day. Victim to an apparent suicide. 

_ I’ve finally joined the club. _

  
  
  



End file.
